


The Wilds

by zombified_queer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 11:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Hannibal fantasizes about outdoor sex to consummate his bond with Will.





	The Wilds

**Author's Note:**

> [Based on the prompt "Hannibal fantasizes about outdoor sex" from this amazing generator.](https://perchance.org/jfmu-hannibalkink)

Hannibal thinks often about where he would first take Will, where they would first consummate their bond. He wants it to be ripe and sweet, without shame, like the first strawberries of a new year. Obsession burns in him, though he suppresses it, locks that beast away on a thick chain. 

For Will's sake.

Physically, Hannibal could devote whole books of poems to the subject of Will’s hands, the youthful way his curls frame his face, the gentle pink of his tempting lips, the circumference of Will’s hips and thighs, what his cock might taste like. What it would feel like to be inside Will, either between those soft lips framed by the roughness of his beard or between those thighs Hannibal adores. 

Often, when Will brings up fishing or The Stream, Hannibal lets his eyes wander over Will, just imagining. And Will would look very handsome laid down on the riverbank, being brought to orgasm with his back pressed into the gravel. Hannibal imagined the pain each stone would bring warring with pleasure on Will's face. Hannibal likes to imagine the taste of crisp river, the warm salt of Will's cock in his mouth. Maybe they're soaked to the bone, seeking each other's heat, rutting as if they might set themselves alight. Maybe they're dry as bleached bones but catching each other in a space they both understand. Hannibal savours his fantasy, careful to never let his mask slip.

Not in front of Will, anyway.

Other times, he thought about what it might be like to press Will against a tree, just the two of them deep in the forest. The bark would scrape Will's flannel, maybe even his back. Hannibal sometimes catches a whiff of pine and aftershave on Will and he'll let that connect him to his fantasy. Perhaps it would be sweat and blood, violence blooming in their consummation. Or it could be fucking. Sandpaper and salt.

Or the forest could hide them in its skirts of brush, the two of them rutting like stags in a clearing. Hannibal imagines the way Will's thighs would straddle him or the way Will could pin him to the ground. Sometimes it's soft grass, sweet as spring. Sometimes it's dirt and the grit of Will's growled swears, nails drawing blood as he uses Hannibal for his own pleasure. It could be as loud and rough as they both wished.

Hannibal's thoughts sometimes wandered, infrequently, toward the Lecter estate in all its glory, flowers in full bloom, the garden cloying and romantic. Perhaps their first time together would be terribly gentle, passionate, the sort of thing books upon books had been written. The sort of thing painted in oil, hung in one’s study. Hannibal thought sometimes about the "delicate rose" of Will's lips stained with jam during a summer picnic. Hannibal could taste the last sweet tastes from those tempting lips. Or perhaps it would be ripe fruit he tasted on Will’s mouth, his breath. Hannibal wondered if Will would call Hannibal's name as he came undone in the warm summer sunlight. Perhaps he’d just come wordless and breathless into his own hand. 

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, Will?"

"What are you thinking?" Will narrows his eyes. Deep, dark blue. Hard to read. 

"I was thinking about the clear of your stream, how restful it might be. I've considered adding it to my mind palace," Hannibal answers safely.

Will nods. He suspects nothing. Or, if he does, he doesn’t indicate he suspects.

Hannibal wants to take Will by his curls, march him outside his office, rut against him in the parking lot and bite along Will's throat until everyone knows who loves Will Graham. Even asphalt jungles are wilderness in their own sanitized and disgusting way. Instead of tree bark, it'll be concrete scraping up Will's back after Hannibal guides the flannel up, taking in Will’s body against his own. To simulate pine, Hannibal will bury his nose in Will's coat, his hair, anywhere that smells properly of trees this deep in Baltimore. But he won't let him go. Not until they've ravished each other, until they're too tired and their throats too raw to scream or growl or make any sort of noise.

His fingers twitch, aching to touch Will.

Instead, Hannibal crosses his legs, cocks his head, and lets his eyes wander, imagining the body under the large flannel, where Will might be scarred and where a bite or a lick might make him melt. 

It'll have to be done outside, Hannibal decides.


End file.
